Wichita eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1886-1890, 1887-12-14

wilt not hear 1t. Thy hammer seems to
resound joyfully. The new house has two
stories. Upon the roof, right against the
chimney, the bricklayers have set flag,
adorned with q bouquet of oleander bios
somsl Thy dream is realized! Thy house
is up. Thy flag floats as proudly in the
breeze as does the one over the town hall
on holidays. Come, now, Martini treat
the workmen. Choose for that purpose
some fine Sunday and christen thy new
house! Thy needst no longer ply thy awl
and thou mayst lay down thy hammer.
1 heed no longer ply my awl, may lay
down my hammerl So frequently has
old Martin been toasted that he is tight,
in fact, very drunk. He had never tasted
that white wine before, and he finds it
very pleasant to drink, much better than
the water Of the fountain. 1t is Martins
first Sunday, the first On which he does
not hear issuing from the church the reg
ular murmur of hymns as monotonouS
as the eternity of which they singl 1t is,
then, a real Sunday, day of rest! ALI
Martins habits will now change. Play
fully he pats his apprentices shoulder.
Eli! ehl Ell, Both are fuddled, and they
look at each other very strangely, saying
such funny things that a crowd gathers
around laughing at them and exciting
them on. Martins wife comes up. Hello!
why did the merry making wind up in a
fight?
The jollity ended in a row. How did
he get drunk Why did he make his ap-
prentice tipsyi No one would have dared
TO joke with poor Martin about his wife
at his age. He would not have been SO
furious. And that evening in his resi-
dence tthe old house, not his own, the new
one). alone with his wife and apprentice,
he would not have got so mad as to wound
the young man in the arm with his shoe
makers knife. But it was his first Sun
day. He was changing his mode of life
and his habits forever; he wished to have
merry making, the only one in his life,
and he wished it such that people would
say: ooh! on that day Martin did things
in style!' Then he returned home drunk
and fell to beating his wife and appren-
tice; they defended themselves and there
were blows, screams and bloodl And to
fill the measure Of the old mans woes, in
his crazy fit Of drunken fury he took up
lamp and set fire to the hangings of his
bed, to the curtains of the windows,
shouting at the top OF his voice: LET
everything burnp' He has had enough
of a life OF drudgery, when the only holi-
day he has ever allowed himself termin-
ates in trouble.
In front of the burning house, while the
wound OF the apprentice is being dressed,
while others are consoling his wife, Martin
weeps and sobs like child.
The new house is no longer his. Half
the money boarded away in the dangling
boots has gone to pay for the damage done
by the fire. Yet the little booth has not
suffered.
In the public square the trees are, in
turn, green, yellow or bare. The fountain,
with its four spouts, still plays merrily,
saddening mirth because it seems so heart
less, needing funeral as little as it does
a christening. Funerals, weddings, chris
Jennings are seen every day passing through
the public square of my village. At night
the chorus Of frogs makes great din, not
unpleasant to those who are accustomed
TO it, and who would probably awake with
a start were it TO cease while they slept.
In summer tho shrill locusts still sound
their jerky notes in the topmost branches
of the plane trees beneath which the shade
is riddled with numerous round spots
gliding hitler and thither, as do our
hearts which are ever futtering between
hope and fearl Tao, tao, pan, pan! time
flies, hammer strikes, men walk, shoes
wear out. How dye do! how dye dol
Pere Martini
Old Martin is there, alone, just as he
used to be before he took an apprentice.
His wife no longer smiles She looks
older and older every day, her skin is like
parchment, and her back is bent. She
prepares the soup ana mends the clothes
while her husband plies his awl. He no
longer hopes for anything, neither house
nor garden. Still, at rimes, he repeats to
himself, as if in dream: "Ohl if some
day, before dying, / could only own a
small house with a little gardenr' In
reality, he feels as if he has had enough of
life-of that life in which single day OF
jollity is FOLLOWED, by world OF trouble.
The old man lives on, just because he
can't help it,
In the center Of his green frame which
spring dots with blood red flowers, he re-
sembles masterpiece of art in which the
painter has deity depicted with lines and
colors mans whole life.
Far away, TWO leagues from the village,
the railway trains sound their shrill whis-
ties. They run upon rails which extend
from one end of the earth to the other,
encircling it, just as a hoop surrounds
barrel; but Martin is always there, upon
his low chair in his narrow booth.
Over the seas sail ships leaving in their
wakes long lines of foam which also seem
to encircle the globe. Martin is still there,
in his narrow booth, plying his awl and
welding his hammer.
There are many ways about the world
many roads, its paths are countless Men
travel and shoes wear out, but Martin
will never stir.
Pan, pant drive in the starlike nails,
which shine under the thick soles of our
peasants. Friend thou hast hammered
into the leather as many nails as there
are stars in the skyl Pam PAM the ham
mer strikes! pan! pan! never stopping.
Conscripts leave the village, soldiers or
sailors; so do the landed proprietors-au
go far, far away, in ships or in cars,
many 90 around the world, but when
they return to my village, after a long
absence, they always see Martin, the
cobbler, shoe firmly held between his
frightened knees, theoretically bringing
his clenched fists together, bending his
elbows and plying his awl with move
ments as regular as those of the brass
pendulum, swinging in its coffin shaped
ease, accompanying with its tao. tao, tao
the noise Of the hammer beating the
leather with sound similar TO what will
be heard some day when nails are driven
into Old Martins coffin. The old clock
still reminds him Of that eternal monot-
ony of life which no one understands.
Old Martin is there, in his narrow
booth, just as lie used TO be, all alone.
He is beginning over again.-Jean
Aicard in The Hgaro-Translated for
Times-Democrat
The Demand for Olives.